


Lightweight

by CornflowerBlue (DayDaDahlias)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Ashton Is Afraid at all Times, Attempted Sexual Assault, Band Dad Ash To The Rescue, Band Dad Ashton Needs a Break So Fucking Bad, Bless Ashton For Taking Care of These Three, Drinking, Drugs, Drunk Calum Hood, Drunk Luke Hemmings, Drunk Michael Clifford, Excessive Drinking, Fights, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Drinking, House Party, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Luke Hemmings is a Lightweight, Non-Consensual Kissing, Painfully Sober Ashton Irwin, References to Drugs, Set in canon, There's A Lot Of Drinking I am Warning You
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayDaDahlias/pseuds/CornflowerBlue
Summary: Rule #1 of a night out; you don’t turn your back on drunk Luke Hemmings. You don’t do it.Ashton swears he only turned his back for a second.
Relationships: Michael Clifford & Luke Hemmings & Calum Hood & Ashton Irwin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	Lightweight

**Author's Note:**

> This literally has no other plot than "Band Dad Ashton hates his kids and seriously needs a break." 
> 
> I watched "Cocktail Chats" when I was first getting into this fandom and my girl made a comment about Luke being a lightweight and I went, "yep, I'm gonna write that fic" so I wrote it and now I'm posting it a whole year later. This is the first 5sos fic I _ever_ wrote. My oldest child.

Luke is a lightweight. That is common knowledge. 

It only takes two beers for the man to start to sway and by the fourth he needs constant surveillance. 

That is a rule of the band; you do _not_ —under any circumstances—leave a drunk Luke Hemmings unattended because, by dammit, you will not be happy with what you find when you come back. 

Once, after a particularly exciting night out on the town—three beers and two vodka shots down the hatch—Calum turned his back on Luke for half a minute and by the time he turned around, the singer had vanished into the crowd. 

It had taken Ashton and Calum two hours to relocate him, halfway down the block at the nearest diner, chatting up the nice young lady at the cash register. Ashton still hasn’t forgiven Calum for that. You don’t turn your back on drunk Luke. You don’t do it. Rule #1 of a night out.

Now, Luke isn’t a _dangerous_ drunk by any means; he doesn’t pick fights with people—far too sweet for that—and he doesn’t walk into oncoming traffic or anything of that sort, but he has other features to his inebriated state that make it less than ideal for him to be let loose on his own. Such as, being far too sweet. 

Luke is a sloppy, chatty drunk that likes to drape himself over people and sit himself in the arms of anyone willing to carry him. Usually, it’s Ashton who Luke clings to when he’s had too many. Those interactions consist of Luke begging Ashton to carry him and Ashton laughingly shrugging off the request until he himself is a few more shots in and then somehow Luke is riding on his back for the rest of the night. 

Granted, Ashton feels a lot better knowing Luke is riding around on his back than he does with Luke running around without supervision. 

‘It’s like having a toddler,’ he’ll joke and Michael will always butt in to say, ‘you are the dad of the group, aren’t you? Don’t pretend you don’t love it.’

For the record, Ashton doesn’t _love_ it. 

He does not enjoy watching after the boys every second of every day. He loves the guys, don’t get him wrong, but it might be nice for one night—just one—to be able to go out by himself, have a good time _by himself_ , without the constant nagging fear that one of his supposedly grown ass children will do something dumb. 

Because they always do something dumb.

Multiple times he has had to step between Calum and some random-ass civilian to say, ‘hey, man, he didn’t mean it’ while Calum bounces on his heels behind him and hisses, balling his hands into fists, ‘I did too fucking mean it.’ 

Honestly, it’s like these jokers want to end up in the hospital. 

Michael is the easiest to deal with of the bunch, for sure, because about eighty percent of the time Michael turns into a stoner when he is drunk and doesn’t do much besides sit on the nearest sofa, recline, and hum random notes while people amble by him. 

It’s easy for Ashton to keep a lookout for him from the corner of his eye while he carries Luke around and tries to keep Calum from hitting some random douche that likes groping women. On rare occasions, Ashton lets him go through with the punch. Sometimes they deserve it. Sometimes, Ashton gives the follow up punch. It’s all about teamwork.

Luke is the hardest to corral because he likes to wander. He likes attention, and if Fight-Club-Cal and May-Be-High-Mike aren’t giving it to him, then he’s off. Which would be okay if Luke had any sense of self preservation whatsoever. 

The amount of times that Ashton has given Luke the ‘stranger danger’ talk is too many. Too many fucking times, Ashton has had to turn around in the driver’s seat when they park—after Calum and Michael have clambered out and headed for the club—and said to the man in the backseat, “Now, Luke—”

“Don’t start,” Luke will moan, hand on the handle he can’t open because Ashton has locked them in. 

Ignoring him, Ashton will carry on, very professional, “If someone you don’t know offers you a drink—”

“I say no,” Luke will chorus in a monotone, bobbing his head.

Ashton will nod, appeased with this answer, and follow up, “And if someone offers you a ride home that is _not_ me, Mike, or Cal?”

Rolling his eyes. “Then I will politely decline. Honestly, do you think I’m six?”

“Yes,” Ashton will say without hesitation because he does. It doesn’t matter if Luke is six, fifteen, or twenty-two, he’s Ashton’s little brother and Ashton worries about his brothers. 

And then he will unlock the doors, setting Luke free into the techno-colored night, knowing full well all his wise words will be ignored and within the next two hours he will stumble upon a giggling Luke, holding some fruity looking drink in one hand, his other tossed over the shoulders of some random-ass man or woman who is sneering at him how a lion smiles at a gazelle. 

Does Ashton trust Luke? Yes. Yes, he does. 

Does he trust people in bars? No. No, he does not. 

Luke is a beautiful person, that is fact. With those fluffy blonde curls, baby blue eyes, and that flirtatious, squeaky laugh he sports after a few shots, how could you not chase that boy down? If Ashton didn’t know him, he would want to. So of course he doesn’t trust the men that slink up to Luke in the dimmed lights, offering him drinks and charming smiles. He would be a terrible band-dad if he did. 

But it gets tiring, having to keep one eye on Luke and one eye on Michael and one eye on Calum when he only has two eyes. 

Usually he only has to worry about two of them because on nights when Michael is rowdy and ready to rumble, Calum will be a bit calmer with the fighting and will settle for jumping around with Michael. Then Ashton can worry about them as a unit and Luke as a singular. 

Although tonight…? Tonight is a bad night. 

Michael has decided that tonight is not a stoner night. No, no no. Tonight is an I’m-Going-to-Do-as-Many-Shots-as-I-Physically-Can-and-then-Dance-on-the-Table-While-Trying-to-Strip night. Not a night Ashton is entirely excited about. 

And Calum—oh, Calum—decided to make his life that much harder. Usually, he would be right alongside Michael, jeering and drinking with him on the table, singing songs they don’t know the lyrics to but no. Not tonight. 

Tonight, Calum is taking it upon himself to be the savior of every woman he has never met. Every guy that offers a girl a drink is fair game. Calum is making threats left and right, brandishing his drink and spitting curses all the while, flexing his muscles in a sleeveless shirt. Honestly, what the hell is wrong with him? 

Something must have happened, is what Ashton deduces, to put Calum in such a sour mood but that will have to be a later conversation because Ashton is too busy trying to drag Michael off the bar to fuss with Calum. 

“What are you doing?” he calls to Michael who is completely blissed out, bobbing his head back and forth to the bass that is thundering through the club. 

“Dancing!” Michael shouts back, bouncing around. 

“But on the _table_?” Ashton cries incredulously, hoping that will be enough incentive for Michael to finally get down and back on the floor. He feels like he’s shaking already and he’s only been here an hour. He didn’t even take anything. “C’mon, mate, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Michael elects to ignore him entirely and Ashton scowls. 

He could be at home right now. He could totally be at home right now, on his sofa, nursing a single, cold beer while he listens to slow, soothing music but no. No, he is here. In the house of someone that he doesn’t even remember the name of, trying to take care of his three surrogate children. 

How did they get trashed so fast? For fuck’s sake.

Sure, this was supposed to be a celebration, what with the new single out and all, but c’mon, they could have shown the slightest bit of restraint. _Want You Back_ doesn’t deserve this much hype. It’s not even their best song. Sure, it’s good and all, but— 

“Oh, you think that’s fuckin’ funny?”

Calum’s voice reaches Ashton’s ears and he snaps his head to the side, away from Michael’s dance routine to find Calum squaring up to a broad shouldered guy towards the other side of the bar. 

Even across the room, he can see that Calum’s face is red and Ashton genuinely doesn’t know if it is rage or alcohol that made him change shade. 

He sends a fleeting glance over his shoulder to Michael—who is banging his head to a different beat than the one playing overhead—and figures it will probably be safer to go fix Calum’s situation first because the worst that’s going to happen to Michael is a bump on the head if he falls but judging on the posture of Broad-Shoulders over there, Calum is actually about to get shanked. 

With a last, fleeting look to Michael, Ashton turns and hurries to Calum, squeezing by other bodies and catching an earful of the word ‘fuck’ in the process. 

He gets closer to the two and realizes they are yelling over the sound of music at each other and the raised voices become clearer as he approaches. 

“She fucking said she didn’t want to fucking dance, you fucking prick—” 

Calum is arguing passionately, using his beer for emphasis as he shakes it by its neck. The ‘she’ he seems to be referencing is a pretty girl standing behind him, arms wrapped around herself, barely twenty-one by the looks of it—that is, if she even _is_ legal—watching the fight progress with wide eyes. 

“I didn’t fucking ask your fucking opinion, did I? I fucking asked her,” the guy snaps back and Ashton can make out that his face is also turning pink in the light. “So piss off.”

“Don’t you fucking tell me to piss off,” Calum snaps and he takes a menacing step forward, pulling his beer back like he is going to swing it and that's Ashton’s cue to intervene. 

“Alright!” Ashton declares, stepping up beside Calum, both his arms extended, flashing his signature, toothy smile. His charming smile is the main reason Calum doesn’t get hit more often. Without Ashton’s smile, chances are Calum would be black and blue by now. “Problem, gentlemen?”

“Who the fuck are you?” the man is quick to spit and Ashton tries not to let his smile or his eye twitch by the tone and the sloppy accent. This guy is American like just about everyone else here.

“Ashton,” he answers at the same time Calum hisses, “Ash, I’ve got this.” 

Ashton doesn’t question what exactly ‘this’ is because he is not about to let his bassist get into a bar brawl at whatever-the-fuck it is in the morning with whoever-the-fuck this guy is supposed to be. He could be at home right now. Why isn’t he at home? 

“Yeah.” The man scowls. “Let your boyfriend handle this.”

Ashton snorts. Gay joke, good, intelligent. “C’mon, mate. I’m sure this is some sort of misunderstanding.”

“Oh, this ain’t a misunderstanding,” the man retorts, “your boyfriend here needs to learn how to mind his own fucking business, huh, and not peep into other people’s. Doin’ fine before this little shit came along.”

He directs a menacing point to Calum’s chest and, on instinct, Ashton shifts further between them. He opens his mouth to retort but Calum has already gone off again. 

“Doin’ fine my ass!” Calum barks. “She said no, man, so take the fucking hint!”

“It’s none of you’re fucking business what she said,” the man shouts and another step is made and this time Calum tries to get around Ashton, who extends an arm to hold him back. 

Why is it that when drunk men cuss, they only know about three curse words? Fuck and shit and usually bitch but that has yet to be thrown.

“It is my fucking business if you’re going around groping on girls that said no you piece of shit,” Calum snarls and tries to move around Ashton, getting past his arm before the man has reached out and shoved Calum hard in the chest. 

“Woah!” Ashton is quick to raise his voice, going right between Calum and the man this time, baring his teeth. “Don’t you push him.”

The man smiles. “Oh, what? Princess can’t take it?”

“I will beat your ass,” Calum yells from where Ashton is trapping him.

“No one is beating anyone’s ass,” Ashton announces and he directs his attention fully to the man. “Listen, mate, you walk away now, no harm, no foul, okay?”

He should be at home. He could have made himself a daiquiri. One with the little umbrella and everything. Oh, it would have been so nice.

“No fucking way,” the man returns and Ashton feels his blood bubble. 

He rolls his eyes hard and glances behind him to the girl that is standing there, seemingly frozen in fear. He gestures with one hand to the guy, “did he ask you to dance, honey?”

The girl nods hesitantly and rubs at her arm. 

Ashton asks, “you say no?” 

Another scared nod. 

Ashton turns back, grinning again although it is forced. “Look at that, huh, situation resolved! You asked the girl to dance, she said no, my friend overreacted and you shoved him once. We’re over it! We can all go our separate ways now, can’t we?”

The man is snarling at Calum, fists clenched at his sides, and Calum is holding his beer bottle like he is about to break it over the nearest counter and use it as a shiv. 

The man leans forward and it is directed over Ashton’s shoulder. He points at Calum. “You and me, we walk outside behind this building, and I beat your fucking head in, then we can—” in a high, mocking tone— “‘head our seperate ways’.” 

Calum doesn’t get a comeback in this time. Ashton takes one hard step forward and his smile is balanced easily on his face. His voice is low. 

“There’s two ways this goes, okay?” 

The man has now focused his attention on Ashton. 

“Either you walk away now, no _harm_ , no foul, y’understand?” He straightens. “Or—and this is a great option here—we go outside like you suggested and _I_ bash _your_ fucking head in like it’s a drum and I’m playing my favorite song.” 

Honestly, now would be a great time to advertise _Want You Back_ but he thinks better of it. This prick probably wouldn’t appreciate good music, even if his head really was the drum. 

It is only then that the man seems to size Ashton up and, sure, Ashton is shorter than him and Calum but he isn’t small. The short-sleeved button up he is wearing is proof of that and the man’s eyes linger on his face for a beat, narrowing.

“Pictures last longer,” Ashton states, “or I could give you an autograph. I wouldn’t mind.”

The man looks back up and there is a moment where his eyes flash like he is really going to invite Ashton out back—and that would be totally alright with Ashton; he is mad enough now that he is absolutely willing to knock this guy flat—but then the man shifts back a step. 

He glares and before he turns away, sneers, “fuck you.”

“Thank you,” Ashton returns with a bow of his head as Calum whispers into his ear, “everyone wants to.” 

For that, Ashton elbows him in the gut.

“What is wrong with you!” He barks as he rounds on the bassist who is red in the face and glowering. “Seriously, man! What is _wrong_ with you?”

“She said no,” Calum answers as if it is an answer. And, usually, Ashton would argue but no… no, he’s so tired and he is _really_ craving that daiquiri with a tiny umbrella so he doesn’t say anything, merely shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“The next time you try to fight someone in a bar, I won’t help—” Ashton stops himself. He knows he won’t do anything differently. So he settles for huffing and smacking Calum gently on the side of the head instead. 

“Ow!” Calum exclaims as if he has been mortally wounded. 

“That’s a warning,” Ashton says pointedly before taking Calum by a belt loop to drag him along. “Now, c’mon, we have to get Michael off the counter.”

“Oh! Michael’s on a table!” Calum exclaims. “I want to be on a table!” 

He laughs gleefully and the damsel in distress he and Ashton have apparently saved waves absently as they leave. 

“In no universe,” Ashton growls as he maneuvers Calum through the crowd by his belt loop, “am I letting you on that table.”

Calum’s lips form a pout and if Ashton weren’t painfully sober—and pissed the fuck off—that would have been enough to make him give in. But not tonight. Tonight is a bad night and Ashton wants his fucking daiquiri, by dammit. 

He hauls Calum across the floor until they finally land in front of Michael, who is thankfully no longer standing on the bar but sitting on it, legs dangling back and forth. He grins sweetly at the duo when they approach him and for a brief moment, relief washes through Ashton’s veins. 

“Hey guys,” Michael greets in a cheery tone and Ashton scowls instantly in response, the relief replaced with irritation at how happy Michael is when Ashton feels this mad. 

“Hey Mike,” Calum returns without hesitation, just as bouncy, and Ashton drags him over to the bar, pushing him onto chair which Calum doesn’t resist. 

Next, he grabs Michael by the ankle and unceremoniously yanks him from the tabletop. 

“Hey!” Michael lets out a yelp of surprise as he tries not to trip and land on his ass. “What the hell, Ash?”

“Sit down,” Ashton demands and Michael can tell he’s angry so he pouts the same as Calum did and deposits himself onto the stool next to their bassist, folding his arms. Calum gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and whispers—which, in his inebriated state, is merely talking in a breathier way, “he’s in a mood.” 

“I am not in a mood,” Ashton groans and Calum sits back, surprised that Ashton heard him. “I’m—I am… _slightly_ irritated with you two right now.”

“He’s pissed,” Calum whisper-screams. 

“Super pissed,” Michael returns and he is somehow worse at whispering than Calum is.

If Ashton weren’t such a nice guy, he would take their heads and smash them together. But he’s such a nice guy, after all, so he doesn’t. He thinks about it though briefly and flexes his fingers several times before sighing. 

“Not pissed. But, can you two please calm down? We’ve only been here an hour.”

“And that’s a whole hour to get shitfaced,” Calum replies. 

“I mean, honestly,” Michael agrees, “an hour is a long time when you’re celebrating.”

Ashton narrows his eyes and the two other men shrink back on their stools. 

“I won’t get on the table again,” Michael amends. 

“And I’ll try not to let anyone piss me off,” Calum says, “but if they do, you really can’t blame me if—”

“I can blame you,” Ashton cuts him off. 

Michael nods his head gently. “Sorry, Ash.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Ashton waves a hand. “I just wish that you two would take it easy, y’know? I have enough time trying to take care of Lu—”

He pauses. He blinks. 

Oh shit. 

He sends a cautious look around the surrounding area, full of people he doesn’t recognize, and then back to 2/4 of his band sitting on stools with foggy eyes and lazy grins, cheeks rosy from alcohol and for a second, he has trouble breathing properly. 

“Guys,” he says, slow and pronounced, “where’s Luke?”

“I thought he was with you,” they say in unison. 

And, yep, now Ashton’s having a significantly harder time getting a breath in. He stumbles out, “what the hell do you mean you thought he was with me?”

Michael starts, “you’re the one who—”

“No!” Ashton blurts before he can finish because there is no way this is Ashton’s fault. There is absolutely no way he was on Luke-duty. “I left him with Calum to do shots while I went to talk with Matt!”

Calum’s eyes brighten. “Oh, how is Matt?”

“Not important!” Ashton shouts. “You lost Luke!”

“I did not!” Calum sits up straighter on his stool. “He only had five shots—”

“ _Five_!” Ashton wails. 

“And then I sent him to Michael!” Calum replies frantically, trying to push the blame away from himself. 

“What?” Michael rears on him. “You did not!”

“I did too!” Calum insists. “Remember? I told you to look after him while I went and—” he drops an octave— “tried to fight that guy.”

Ashton is staring at Michael. His heart is starting to increase its speed because holy shit, they’ve lost Luke. Surely he can’t have gotten far though, right? Calum was only fighting that guy for a minute or two so Luke can’t have wandered too awfully far. He has to be somewhere. He has to be. 

“I don’t remember that,” Michael says, shaking his head. “I think you ditched him.”

“I wouldn’t ditch Luke!” Calum seems almost offended by the implication. 

They’re wasting time. Every second they argue is a second Luke is wandering around, drunk and far too trusting. Oh God, Ashton might have an anxiety attack; this is too much tonight. 

“Hey! Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumbass!” Ashton shouts and the guys turn on him, shutting up instantly at the tone. “Sit here; don’t move a fucking muscle, okay? I have to find—” He swallows down the panic— “I have to find Luke and I don’t want either of you wandering around unsupervised.”

“We’re not toddlers,” Michael whines. 

“You might as well be!” Ashton’s fingers are twitching at his side. “Consider this a timeout. I’m gonna find Luke because I have to because _some_ people don’t know how to _pay attention_.”

Calum and Michael keep their mouths shut tight. Good on them. If they spoke or made any sort of protest, Ashton might hurt someone. God dammit they lost Luke. Fuck. Ashton feels close to a breakdown. 

All he wants is his fucking daiquiri with a tiny umbrella; why is that too much to ask for?

He starts off into the crowd, fists clenched at his sides. 

Several people try to catch him as he passes, including Matt, who offer congratulations on the song and the new album and all the bullshit, and usually Ashton would play the perfect promo man, thanking everyone for their love and their kind wishes, and talk about how proud he is of his band and their success. 

But right now he is short one blonde, long legged lead singer, and he is not in the mood for small talk. 

He only stops a few times to ask friends, “Hey, have you seen Luke? No. Of course you haven’t. What? No, nothing’s wrong. Yeah, no, I’ve got it. It’s me. I’ve always got it.”

He checks every room in the downstairs of the house and every time he opens a door and Luke’s not behind it, his heart rate accelerates. God forbid Luke has left the building. Because all Ashton can think about now is a drunk Luke Hemmings wandering aimlessly around LA in the middle of the night. 

He’s only twenty four and somehow he’s too old for this.

“I think I saw him go upstairs with a girl,” someone says and Ashton’s head reels when he asks, “what girl?” but no one seems to have a proper answer to that. 

That is what sends him up the stairs, his boots making loud clunks with every storming step. He goes through the doors up there, getting more and more anxious and fucking _pissed_ every time it comes up without his bandmate. 

At one point he opens up on some people doing lines of coke and when they offer him to join them, he slams the door so loudly he’s afraid he broke it. God fucking help him if he finds Luke doing cocaine. 

No. Scratch that. God help _Luke_. Because Ashton will kill him. 

It’s the fifth door he opens—thinking to himself that there are too many goddamn doors in this house—that he finds an occupied bedroom. 

He’s about to apologize for intruding on the couple when his eyes adjust to the dim light and it hits him like a ton of bricks what he’s looking at.

There’s a girl on the bed straddling the waist of the squirming man beneath her, leaned over him and mouthing at his neck, her hand sliding down his chest and it takes one glance at those golden curls for Ashton to know who it is beneath her. 

Within a second he’s crossed the room and grabbed her by the arm, hard, ripping her off of Luke, dragging her off the bed as well. 

“Hey, what the fuck, dude!” she barks, wiping off her mouth as she rips her arm out of Ashton’s grip. 

“Yeah!” Ashton all but screams, rage boiling in his stomach. “I’ve got the same fucking question, what the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

He takes the time to look over at Luke, who—judging by the closed eyes he’s sporting and hand on his forehead—is completely fucking out of it. He hasn’t moved to sit up, the heel of his hand against his skin, eyebrows arched up, hair splayed out behind his head on the sheets. 

His shirt isn’t off but it’s opened too far down for Ashton’s liking, showing a flushed chest and a panting stomach. His throat is decorated with lipstick stains and Ashton clenches his hands into fists as he turns back to the girl, demanding in a tone that leaves no room for argument, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What the hell do you mean? He was into it!” she argues and Ashton knows it’s not right to hit a girl but he almost fucking does it. 

“He’s half conscious!” Ashton shouts. “Does he look like he’s in any fucking condition to have sex, right now?”

The girl blinks, sending a look at Luke who is splayed out on the bed and letting out a low whine from his chest, rubbing at his eyes with the same hand. 

Someone’s taken his shoes off and Ashton notices his fly is down. 

He clenches his teeth so tight he's worried he may crack them, knowing his voice has turned to a goddamn snarl when he grits out, “I’m gonna give you five minutes to walk out of here, or we’re gonna have a serious fucking problem; do I make myself clear?”

Apparently he does, because she sends one peek to the incapacitated Luke before a sort of horrified realization dawns on her and she mumbles, “Holy shit, I’m so sorry, I thought—” and then doesn’t say anything else when she rushes out of the room. 

Ashton goes the opposite way, rushing to Luke and bending down to brush his hair out of his face, pulling his hand away from his forehead. 

He says in the softest voice he can manage with the way rage is still coursing in his veins and his hands are shaking, “Hey, Luke. Honey. Hey, you okay?”

Luke whines, squinting his eyes, voice cracking when he asks, “Ash? Shit, my head hurts.”

“I bet,” Ashton replies, helping him sit up. “Cal said you had about five shots on top of whatever else it was you did tonight. I’m surprised you still know English.”

He braces a comforting hand on Luke’s spine and instantly after sitting up, Luke tilts forward so he almost falls off the bed and Ashton catches him with a hand on his chest.

“Woah!” he says as Luke lets out another groan, holding his hand to his head and squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I think I’m gonna vomit,” Luke mutters and Ashton isn’t surprised, so he does what he can to help Luke into the bathroom (if anyone sees him carrying his 6’2” bandmate bridal style through the upstairs hallway; no they didn’t) in time for him to bend over the toilet and empty the contents of his stomach.

That’s probably for the best, considering nothing good could have been in it anyway. 

“That’s it,” Ashton soothes the entire time, rubbing circles on Luke’s spine as he heaves. “That’s good. Let it out. You fucking… dick. Let it out. I love you. Goddammit. You bastard. I love you.”

It takes ninety percent of his energy to get Luke downstairs after that, one of Luke’s arms slung around his shoulder, half carrying him and half letting him think he’s walking on his own. 

He says to Luke in a quiet voice as they’re stumbling, “You ever scare me like that again, and I’m putting you up for adoption.”

Luke groans in response and Ashton tightens his grip on him. 

“I’m making you drink a gallon of water when we get home. And you're taking Advil and... and something else. And you’re staying at my place. No excuses. And y’know what, so are Mike and Cal. I can’t handle any more stress tonight. I need you all in eyesight.” 

He lets out a hard sigh, getting to the last step of the staircase where the music is thundering. Luke doesn’t seem to like the louder noise, moaning as he rests his head on Ashton’s shoulder, his face tucking into the curve of Ashton's neck while he takes in a shuddering breath. 

He says into Ashton's skin, "Thank you." 

The small words absorb any anger Ashton had left in him. Now he’s just tired. He’s so fucking tired and the adrenaline that was forcing through him fades away, leaving the trembles of fear and worry behind.

He reaches the household bar where Michael and Calum are still sitting together, chattering, thank fucking God, and upon sight of him, they perk up. 

“What happened to him?” Calum asks at the same time Michael says, “fuck, Lukey, you look like shit.”

“Feel like it too,” Luke returns, still tucked into Ashton's neck, his voice hoarse from coughing up stomach acid and Michael and Calum both cringe at the sound. 

“Oh, you’re not the fun kind of drunk,” Calum says. 

Michael adds, “That’s gonna be a fun hangover.”

“Yep, sure is,” Ashton interrupts and he nods his head to the direction of the exit. “Now c’mon, kids, we’re leaving.”

“But it’s not even two a.m.—” Calum starts to protest and Ashton gives him the worst death glare he can muster in his exhausted state. 

“You’re getting in the fucking car, Cal,” he says, and he’s using his _don’t fuck with me right now_ voice and everyone knows that, so Calum pouts his bottom lip out but doesn’t argue any more as he and Michael get up from the bar. 

“We’re never going out again,” Ashton decides as they walk to their car—which is his car because he drove them here like a damn chauffeur.

“That’s not fair!” Michael whines as he climbs into the backseat, Calum after him. 

“It’s completely fair; Luke can’t stand.” 

He helps said vocalist into the passenger seat, wincing when Luke lets out a complaining whimper and curls in on himself the second he sits. Ashton buckles him in before getting into the drivers’ seat and pulling out of the driveway as fast as is legal.

He finds himself ranting as he drives, putting that fucking house in their rearview mirror, “I can’t believe you guys tonight. I mean, seriously. I am not your father, d’you understand that? Do you even care? Because it feels like you don’t. I can’t drop everything at every given moment and chaperone you like you’re my toddlers. There’s only so much I can take, okay? And tonight? Oh my god _tonight_. I swear you guys shaved at least five years off my life. I have never been so fucking scared in my life. I love you guys, okay, and I can’t handle worrying about you like that, do you get me? I can’t—”

He glances in his rearview mirror and the rest of the words die in his throat. 

Michael and Calum are leaning their heads on each other, fast asleep in the backseat, Calum’s mouth hung open while he snores.

Once again, any and all anger dissipates when Ashton exhales. 

He looks back at the road and it’s not for a few moments that Luke’s tiny voice says, “I’m sorry we worry you so much.”

Ashton glances at the man in his passenger seat, golden curls a mess on his head, his shirt sloppily buttoned up and lipstick stains smudged on his neck where Ashton had tried to wipe them off with wadded up toilet paper in the bathroom. He looks so small, arm holding his stomach, and every swallow looking like it hurts him. 

Ashton assures, broken, “you… I—Fuck. Luke, I’m not upset.”

Luke stares at him for a second. He asks, “You’re not?” 

“No,” Ashton answers and at this point, he’s really not. 

He can’t be mad at Michael and Calum tucked together asleep in his backseat and he can’t be mad at Luke’s watery blue eyes staring at him. He can never stay mad at any of them for longer than a moment and it may be something that’ll bite him in the ass one day, but not today. 

He’s not mad today.

He reaches out to pat Luke’s knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze, as he promises, “I’m just happy you’re safe.”

Luke smiles at him. “Thanks, Ash.”

And all with that said and done, Luke leans his head against the cool glass of the window and lets his eyes drift shut. 

Ashton looks back through the windshield, and eases the remaining worried shakes from his hands because they’re all there with him in his car, and they’re all safe, and that’s what matters to him right now. 

He assures himself that he will get a daiquiri with a tiny umbrella at some point, even if that’s not today, and focuses on driving them home, concern eased by Calum’s snoring in the backseat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
